If the power grows stronger, however . . . if it acquires another child, I fear I will not be able to overcome it. So I must keep Lenora safe, whatever the cost. I must keep her unmarked, untouched, unentangled by the woods. If I do not, it will destroy us all. I cannot explain how I know this; perhaps the knowing is passed down, generation to generation. Perhaps it is connected to the walls of Stonewall Manor. There were other Coles who knew many unexplainable things as well. It flows through our blood.
When I emerged from Lenora’s room this evening, after hours of watching, waiting, ensuring the silver snake did not return, I opened the door across from it, the one that is kept for my son. I imagined him, asleep in the bed. I could hear him breathing.
He may never return.
But I must, at least, try.
—excerpt from Richard Cole’s Journal of Scientific Progress
QUESTIONS AND MORE QUESTIONS
16
The house was thick with shadows when Lenora rose and opened her door. The hallway did not have lights, or at least not any that were currently turned on. Lenora would have to say something to Mrs. Jones; she hated darkness—had always hated darkness because of the things that lived inside it: monsters and all manner of frightful things. And her dream still hung over her. A shadow man? She shivered.
Darkness would be bearable if Rory were here with her, or John and Charles in the room across the hall. She looked at the blue-green door. It was partially open, a dim light reaching out from inside it.
That was different. Yesterday it had been closed and locked, or so she’d assumed. Was someone inside? Had someone come to visit?
Lenora gripped her doorframe, took a deep breath, glanced at the dark hallway (to make sure, one more time, there was no shadow man anywhere near her), and raced across it. She hesitated at the blue-green door. Mrs. Jones said no other children lived here. Why was the door open, then?
Her spine tingled. Was the shadow man inside? Was it better to know or not know?
She decided it was better to know. She pushed through the door (it whined the whole way, which made Lenora cringe) and stepped into the room.
It was empty.
Lenora looked around. The room was almost identical to hers, except that the walls were painted the color of a morning sky, and the bedcovers were a silken gold. But what pulled her deeper into the room was a tree painted in the corner, its branches filling the entire wall and curling onto the ceiling.
Hanging from the tree—from the ceiling, really—was a wooden swing.
Lenora had never seen a swing inside a house. She had never seen a room large enough to hold one. She ran her fingers along its smooth wooden seat. The rough rope pricked her fingers when she closed her hand around it. She sat on the rectangle of wood—could not really help it. It was a swing!
She applied her weight in slow doses, unsure this was a swing intended for actual use and not just decoration. Could one really trust a swing hanging from a ceiling? But when she braved lifting her feet, the swing held. She marveled.
The swing groaned when Lenora pumped her legs. She skittered to a stop. But she could not stay still for long. The swing groaned again, but she continued to pump. She did not go high, but she did close her eyes. The golden light of the morning, splashing through two windows with drapes pulled back and secured behind copper balls, warmed her face.
How wonderful it must have been to have a swing inside your room. Whose room was this?
Lenora’s stockings slid against the floor as she tried to stop. It took her three tries and a bit of a jump, which made a thumping sound on the wooden floor. She had missed the rug. She smiled at herself and patted the seat of the swing.
She walked around the perimeter of the room, where drawings of different birds hung on the walls. They were very good. She touched each one in turn and then opened the chest of drawers beside the bed. Clothes were nestled inside. She peered into the standing chest. More clothes hung from wire hangers—pressed pants and vests that looked like the one her uncle had worn yesterday, only in brighter colors like periwinkle and scarlet and marigold. They smelled of dust and age but were still soft to the touch.
A boy had lived here. Where was he now?
Lenora ventured into the bathroom, where more drawings—these of strange animals and plants, unlike anything she had ever seen—hung on the walls, colored with perfect precision, as though someone had taken great care and detail with them.
She knew it would not do to stay in this room; if Mrs. Jones came looking, Lenora might get in trouble. Mrs. Jones might lock up the room again, and Lenora would not be able to come back.
She wanted to come back.
So Lenora stood in the doorway and examined the darkness of the hall one more time. She peered into the black, checking for shadows. She looked at the winding stairs. There were so many.
But she could do it.
She ran, as fast as she possibly could, clutching the stair rail so her stockinged feet did not betray her and hand her to the shadow man of her dreams, whom she knew was right behind her.
Halfway down, she hoisted herself onto the rail and rode it to the bottom.
17
It seemed the house was still sleeping. All was silent when Lenora reached the bottom floor, her heart pounding, her breath coming in puffs. She composed herself and straightened. She had not changed from her dressing gown, which meant she’d have to brave the stairs and that dark hallway again.
She grimaced up at the top floor. She would make Mrs. Jones come with her this time. She would make sure there were lights, at the very least.
Downstairs the rooms were much brighter than the hallway upstairs, so Lenora’s terror diminished but did not completely disappear. Stonewall Manor was not a bright and joyful place; it was made of stone and gloom. How could it be anything but a little frightful?
Since no one seemed to be around, Lenora began poking around. She opened the doors of rooms she had not been shown yesterday. There was a sitting room with yellowing furniture—perhaps it had once been white?—covered in some kind of plastic. There was another dining room, larger even than the one she and Uncle Richard had used last night. Lenora shook her head. Why had Father never brought them here? They could have had raucous family suppers around this table.
Was Uncle Richard really that bad? As far as she could tell, he was only slightly strange, but that could be forgiven, couldn’t it?
What had happened in this house to drive Father away so completely?
Inside another sitting room, which was smaller than the first one she’d seen, Lenora moved toward a lamp, but it did not turn on when she pulled its chain. So she drew back the heavy curtains that covered one of the windows so she could better see the room. Light brown furniture occupied every corner, including a chair trimmed with gold—it looked almost like a throne. Lenora sat down on it, a puff of dust rising up and clinging to her nose. She coughed and stood.
So many unused rooms. It was a pity.
The next room she discovered was darker than all the rest. She switched on a light—this one worked—and gasped.
It was the library. The shelves reached all the way to the ceiling. A ladder with wheels was positioned at one end, as though someone had only just finished every book in the library or, perhaps, had just begun. Lenora gazed at the spectacular sight. She would never be able to read this many books in a lifetime.
John would have practically lived in this room—in fact, he might have claimed it for his bedroom. The thought made her stomach hurt.
She told herself it was hunger, not grief. John was alive. He would come soon. He would see this library, and he would disappear in it.
Lenora crossed the room to some heavy velvet drapes and tucked them behind a brass ball that jutted out from the wall. The morning light was soothing and soft. The furniture in the room was a deep red color that matched the drapes, and a carpet of dark brown with gold flourishes pressed in it unfolded in the center of the room. Lenora walked
along the shelves, her hands touching titles she’d never even heard of. She was almost halfway around the room before she discovered one that sounded familiar, one that John would have spotted almost immediately.
The Origin of Species. He had always loved this book, though Mother and Father made sure to instill in him faith. Darwin, they had said, was known as a skeptic of God and all things spiritual. They didn’t want John to become the same. Lenora smiled at the memory. John was the most zealous of them all. He hurried them into the car every Sunday morning, and when service finished he would play energetic hymns—which seemed a paradox but was never such in her family—on the family piano for at least an hour after lunch. He called it “The Gospel Hour, with John Cole.”
What day was it? Had Sunday come and gone?
A piano was something Lenora had not yet seen inside Stonewall Manor. And surely a house this fine had a professional piano, maybe even one of those grand pianos. It would give her something to do. She had always hated practicing, but she would do it now—willingly and without complaint, which had never happened at home. By the time Mother and Father came to pick her up, she would have more songs memorized than Rory, who was the real musician in the family.
Lenora moved her fingers, as though playing a piano made of air. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.
“I see you have found the library.”
Lenora jumped, her eyes popping back open. Uncle Richard stood in the doorway. They were the first words he’d said directly to her since she’d entered Stonewall Manor as its guest.
“It is . . .” Lenora paused. “So grand.”
Uncle Richard’s lips twitched, and Lenora wondered if he might smile. But all he said was, “Help yourself.”
He was about to turn away when Lenora said, “Uncle?”
He stared at the floor for a minute before tilting his face back to her. He straightened, his chin lifting. His eyes met hers, looked away, met hers again, and settled on the window. She almost turned around to see what had caught his attention, but instead she said, “I wondered if you had a piano.”
Uncle Richard’s eyes slid back to hers. He looked at her for a very long time, and she wondered if he had gone into one of his Other World Fits, which was a name for his condition that she had come up with last night, while racing up the stairs to her room. She was not close enough to see if his eyes had glazed and were lost to what lived in front of him. It surprised her when he said, “A piano.” His left hand tapped his thigh.
“I would like to play a little, if that is all right,” Lenora said. “So I don’t fall behind.”
Uncle Richard nodded. “Yes.” His voice was softer than she had ever heard it. He cleared his throat. “There is a piano in the ballroom.”
A ballroom. Lenora could not believe this house.
Uncle Richard said, “Tell Mrs. Jones I said to show you the piano.” He cleared his throat again—or was it a grunt?—and tapped his cane on the floor once. “It has not been played in too long. It might need tuning. I’ll see to that.” He turned to go, then paused. His head bowed, lifted, turned back to Lenora. “It will be good to hear music again.”
Lenora had not heard her uncle speak so many words in the short time she had known him. She liked the sound of his voice. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was Father talking to her. But Uncle Richard did not speak again, and when she opened her eyes, he was gone.
18
Lenora took only one wrong turn on her way into the kitchen. She met a dead end and turned around to retrace her steps. She planned to explore more of the manor later today or tomorrow, but for now, she was much too hungry.
Mrs. Jones was moving about in the kitchen, her steps making a squishing sound on the floor tile. She scraped a pan and bent to retrieve something from the icebox. The kitchen smelled delightful—like sugar and cinnamon and other spices. Lenora’s stomach rumbled loudly enough for Mrs. Jones to hear.
She turned to Lenora with a wide smile on her face. “Good morning, love,” she said. “I hope you slept well.”
Lenora nodded and crossed the kitchen to peer into the pan Mrs. Jones held. Cinnamon rolls. How did Mrs. Jones know this was her favorite breakfast in the entire world? Mother didn’t cook them often; she said cinnamon rolls were not a sufficient breakfast. Lenora’s chest squeezed.
Was it betrayal to eat cinnamon rolls when Mother had hated this kind of breakfast?
“Sit down, love,” Mrs. Jones said. “I’ll make you a plate. Would you like eggs and bacon as well?”
She thought Mother would be pleased with that, so Lenora nodded. She would have cinnamon rolls and eggs and bacon. A hearty breakfast with a side of treat.
The cinnamon roll took up half the plate. Lenora smiled.
“Have you seen your uncle this morning?” Mrs. Jones said. “He was up and about earlier.”
“He found me in the library.”
“You found the library, then?”
“It is . . .” She couldn’t think of a word to describe it.
Mrs. Jones looked up from washing a pan. “It’s a wonder, isn’t it.” It was not a question. “That library has been collecting books for centuries.”
“I don’t think my town library had so many books.”
Mrs. Jones chuckled. “Yes, well, the Coles have always been readers.”
After a few moments of silence, during which Mrs. Jones finished washing the pan and wiped the stove top and a place inside the icebox (she was very efficient at her cleaning; Lenora had always hated cleaning the kitchen the most), Lenora said, “Uncle Richard said there is a piano in the ballroom.”
Mrs. Jones stiffened. She waited several seconds before turning around. When she did, her eyes were glassy. “It’s a magnificent piano.”
“He said you might show me where it is.”
“After breakfast, I would be glad to,” Mrs. Jones said, but Lenora caught a flash of something in her eyes that she couldn’t decipher. Worry mixed with hope, perhaps. Or perhaps Lenora had simply imagined it. Mother always said she had an overactive imagination; it was how she explained Lenora’s fear of the dark.
“I had a strange dream last night,” Lenora said. She said it to fill the space, to fill the room, to fill the hollow in her chest. It was something she would have told Mother or Father, if they were here. It was something they would have discussed.
Mrs. Jones wiped her hands on her apron. “What kind of dream?”
She seemed interested, so Lenora continued. “A shadow man was calling to me,” she said. “He looked a little like Father.” Her voice cracked on his name. Did Father visiting her dreams mean that he had died?
No. It couldn’t.
Mrs. Jones pressed her lips in a thin line and cleared her throat. Lenora wondered why her hands trembled as she folded them together. “Did you close your window last night?” Mrs. Jones said, her voice higher than it was before.
Lenora tilted her head. “I don’t remember. It was closed when I woke up.” She was sure of this, at least. The room had been much too stuffy for the window to have been open.
Mrs. Jones nodded. “Be sure to close your window every evening before you sleep.”
“Why?” Though Lenora had already asked this question, Mrs. Jones had not answered it satisfactorily. So she thought she’d try again; this tactic worked often with Father. Never with Mother.
Mrs. Jones’s eyes narrowed briefly—so briefly Lenora might have missed it if she hadn’t been already looking. The space between the cook—housekeeper? Lenora wasn’t sure what to call her—and Lenora lengthened, a long silence swelling as Mrs. Jones appeared to consider whether to answer or hold back. She opened her mouth and closed it again, opened it, closed it. Finally she said, “It is your uncle’s rule. You must ask him about it.” She turned back to the sink and stared out the window toward the woods.
Lenora’s insides burned.
19
Lenora scraped her entire plate clean.
“You eat
like your cousin Bobby,” Mrs. Jones said. She sat down in the chair opposite Lenora.
“The eggs were delicious.” Lenora meant the words. They were so fluffy they were like greasy, salty clouds in her mouth. She wished there were more, but she wouldn’t say so. She was a guest here; she didn’t want to inconvenience her uncle.
After a minute, Lenora said, “I found Bobby’s room this morning.” She wasn’t entirely sure it was Bobby’s room, but it was her educated guess. How many other boys would have lived in that room, with suits that looked very much like Uncle Richard’s?
“Did you?” Mrs. Jones’s face took on a faraway look.
“It was the most wonderful room,” Lenora said. “There were pictures of birds on the walls and a swing hanging from the ceiling.”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Jones said. “I forgot about that swing. Bobby would use it when he was working out some problem. Science, math, even an English composition.” Mrs. Jones gestured toward her head. “He said it got his brain working again.”
Lenora could understand. Swinging inside a house felt exhilarating.
“I wish I had known him,” she said.
“He was a good boy.” Mrs. Jones blinked hard.
“What happened to him?” Lenora could not help the question. She needed to know. She could see by the look on Mrs. Jones’s face that it was something dangerous, something tragic. Shouldn’t she be warned?
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “We don’t talk about Bobby in this home.”
“But why not?” A chill skipped over her skin, slid down her throat, and dropped all the way to her belly. Was Bobby being hidden somewhere? Was he tortured? A scientific experiment?
Had Lenora stepped into one of those old terrifying stories about children who were born with problems and hidden away from the public, locked behind a door so they were not seen? Was Stonewall Manor a more dangerous place than she had at first thought? Is that why Father had stayed away?
The Woods Page 6